


Never Alone

by WrittenTales



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 06:07:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8653714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrittenTales/pseuds/WrittenTales
Summary: d'Artagnan, in his old age, takes the time to reflect on those he misses most.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this piece around the end of the finale, the music, the small symbolism got to me. So I had written this months ago with tears streaming down face because the thought of d'Artagnan being their "protegee" had me thinking. How would d'Artagnan take it if he were the only one left alive among the inseparables? It's very nostalgic, but I believe that hug at the end, each man separating to go on and live out their lives without the others near, was heartbreaking. I also believe that when one inseparables died, the rest were there to wish them a final farewell, it was never just three or two or one. It was and will always be four of them together. In this life and the next.

_“We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone.” –Orson Welles_

Death was inevitable though d’Artagnan doesn’t know if it was fate who wrote it in that he was to outlive his comrades, was it through old age or on the battlefield, d’Artagnan never once wondered of a time where he would be the only inseparable left. As he lays down by the campfire, brittle bones aching but his spirit still as strong and stubborn as ever, our d’Artagnan laments, laments upon the times of old. Even though his memory fades each and every day, some images are engraved in the muscle of his mind, somethings he can never forget.

But it was a quiet night, and the peace quells the pounding ache in his head. As an old man, the noise of Paris isn’t as inviting as used to be and for a few years, he’s been contemplating moving back to Gascony, since was alone now, he can virtually do anything, travel anywhere he wanted. But he would do so with a heavy heart. Nowhere would make him happier than Paris, it’s where his life has been lived and where his friends have died. It’s a precious gem among the few that are fading away with time. Besides, there’s little joy in travelling alone.

The stars twinkle in the sky, and the moon gives him a warmth that runs down the core of his crooked spine, giving him gooseflesh. But as the rain soaked grass seeps into his back, the lulling blow of the wind and the smell of ash settles him in a state of nirvana.

When he wakes, though he doesn’t remember when he had fallen asleep, he startles at the sound of laughter. A familiar boom and crackle of a laugh, a laugh that belonged to no one other than Porthos.

He ends up scrambling to sit upward, and he finds himself surrounded by Athos, Aramis, and Porthos. Young again, as if time took away what it weathered, no longer was their skin wrinkled, spots gathering because of old age, and neither did death seem to sit upon their shoulders, bending them over in a permanent hump. For a brief moment, as the four inseparables were united again, d’Artagnan thought he was dead, passing in his slumber.

“Ah, the pup is awake.” Porthos comments, sipping from his cup with an ease that just naturally came to Porthos.

“And to believe for a moment we all thought that punch from Madame actually killed you.” Aramis chides, his effortless charm shining through his smile. “Strong lady isn’t she?” He chuckles and Athos, whose hat is tipped forward to where it almost covers his face as he leans back on a log, trying to get sleep, grunts in response.

D’Artagnan, who was so memorized by the scene, starts to mumble, “What…Madame?”

“Madame Louise, of course. The wife of the noblesse graduelle.”

Athos smirks, “Perhaps she’s done more harm than you thought, Aramis.”

“So you’re saying that d’Artagnan can’t take a punch from a woman? Damn, when we get to the Garrison maybe I should knock him around some more?” Porthos suggests but Aramis pats him on the shoulder.

“Dear Porthos he’s still wet behind the ears, the slight blow of a woman’s dress has him panting. Besides, Madame Louise was…more of a monsieur than lady of the nobility. D’Artagnan perhaps was the lucky one to leave her presence as fast as he came in.”

This had everyone around the fire, except for d’Artagnan, laughing at the younger musketeer’s expense. Though Athos leans over and asks him, seriously now, if he was truly alright.

He remembers this moment, only a week after his commission they had went to answer the call of a Noblesse graduelle, who had thought someone was trying to assassinate him and his wife. Porthos has told him to knock on the door when they first arrived, the others sat upon their horses, waiting and watching from behind him. None of them expected for Madame Louise to come out with fists swinging and guns being fired down at them from the second story of the house. Nonetheless, d’Artagnan also remembers the fact that they still, after forty years, never let him live it down.

As him and the others sit down and drink warm ale, fondly, d’Artagnan looks at Athos, whose expression was always the same, gloomy but contemplative. It’s been almost twenty years since he’s seen the man’s sharp countenance, as he was the first to fall, due to a sickness, taken from their lives forever.

They barely spoke that night, staring amongst each other before they all decided to sit next their old friend, knowing that when the sun rose, it would take Athos’ soul with it. They didn’t want him to die with the harsh delirium from the fever making him feel as if he was helpless. Despite being grey and worn-out, in d’Artagnan’s perspective, Athos still looked honorable, elegant, and dignified, even in death’s color. That day the world turned meaningless, as a great leader was stripped from them that day.

D’Artagnan’s eyes switch to Porthos, and for a brief moment, they lock eyes and Porthos squints in acknowledgement. The brave and fierce Porthos, the great general of the French army, and he died as such, eight years later. D’Artagnan was there on the battlefield, long enough to see Porthos speared in the shoulder, yet a pistol to the chest was what d’Artagnan believed truly killed him. Aramis, as the Minister of France, sat by Porthos’ bedside, tears falling silently as Aramis prayed with Porthos’ hand in his, till it turned cold. It was hard to pull Aramis away, the man refusing to accept that Porthos had to die in such a glorious way and that he had much more left to do and to see. He wasn’t ready, death took him too soon.

Porthos wasn’t afraid of death, d’Artagnan remembering the big oaf claiming that death couldn’t be so bad if he gets the chance to see his mother again, the people he loved and lost too early, and that Athos maybe a drag, but it was good company nonetheless. Porthos wasn’t a religious man, but he believed that a better place like heaven had to exist, before he died. That day, life took a piece of his heart with Porthos’ departure, and Aramis and he drunk in sullen silence that night.

Six years later, Aramis randomly knocked on his door, saying that he didn’t want to be alone one night. He claimed that he wanted to be next to familiar company, so he let Aramis lay beside him. Aramis and he spoke for a long while, trying to remember old, forgotten banter and chattered on about better times, then Aramis admitted that he knew he was going to die that night, somehow he felt it in his spirit. He settled his things with the new King, finalized all his debts and goodbyes to the people that he knew. But it was just that he didn’t want to **_go_** in the palace, he wanted d’Artagnan by his side. Though as much as d’Artagnan tried to keep Aramis talking, in his mind, he thought he was perhaps keeping Aramis on earth for a little while longer, until sleep got the better of them that night; d’Artagnan finding himself wearier than he’s ever been before, afraid to close his eyes. Yet sleep finally succumbed him by force and by the time he woke, Aramis was gone, and he was truly alone.

Alone but not in heart. Every day, he wore Aramis’ cross, Athos’ scarf hung in his pocket, and Porthos’ favorite dagger at his side. The inseparables were separated, but they’ll always be with him, in soul and spirit, when he takes a drink, when he rides his old stallion through the streets of Paris, or when he finds himself sitting alone, wishing for company, his inseparables will always be there, watching over him, giving him the will to move forward with old weary bones, and for when he needed a good laugh.

The sword was not the only thing that banded them together, loyalty to the brotherhood was never what kept them side by side; it was the love, the fact that you could sit around a fire in the overgrowth and feel absolutely comfortable, that every look you could understand and every decision actually meant something. Their love was not intimate, Constance, Sylvie, Elodie, Anne, their hearts rightfully taken. But their love was so much **_more_**.

Finally, feeling rejuvenated, young and free again, like the world couldn’t snatch him from his pedestal, d’Artagnan looks at Aramis, and the musketeer hands him a cup of wine. “You’ve been rather quiet.” He nudges.

D’Artagnan takes a deep breath and feels the sadness but overall joy bundle up in his throat, and he’s wishing with all his heart that if he’s dreaming, that he’ll never wake up again. That this moment can last forever.

He stares at the cup of dark, splendid liquor, “It’s been so long.” And he feels all their presences watching him intently, hanging on his every word, and he smiles at them all, a single tear sliding down his cheek. “I’m just so happy to be home.”

The four former musketeers huddle together, and enjoy what time is left before the sun rises, and when it does, Athos announces it’s time to go back to the  Noblesse graduelle’s home to find out their target. Porthos, Athos, and Aramis settled onto their horses, yet they turn to see d’Artagnan standing behind, in front of the dwindled fire.

Their story in Paris ended a long time ago, d’Artagnan was just waiting for the new chapter to begin.

“Sorry, whilst you took a nap, we didn’t feel like going after your horse. We could only go so far with you unconscious and us being shot at and all...” Porthos shrugged, breathing in the morning breeze and looking up to see the birds migrating in the sky. If there was a heaven, this was it.

“But you can ride with me for now until we find him.” Athos stretches out a gloved hand which d’Artagnan looks at with forlorn, before he grabs it without any more hesitation.

Next thing d’Artagnan knew, he was back to his weary body, and the nice chill of the new morning. He sits up, hopeful, though he sees nothing but his horse who nays to no one.

He didn’t know how long he had left in this world and he didn’t know how he would leave it, and as he was there for each of his brothers passing, he knows to himself that he will never be lonely again. Like the day his father died curled in his embrace and the day Aramis passed in his bed. But he takes a lung filled breath of mist and crisp forest air, listening to the critters beginning their morning routine, clutching the three things he cherishes most in this world in his shaky hands, watching the shining sun with a smile and a light heart.


End file.
